


(Previously) Unreleased

by glenien



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Hurt!John, John's POV, M/M, References to Drugs, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Vague references for Season 4, evil!mary, john's ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glenien/pseuds/glenien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if his body was preparing him for the inevitability of it, John wakes up slowly, gently, hesitantly. [S4 related Three Garridebs Johnlock]</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Previously) Unreleased

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, no medical accurancy, just pure emotional wreck.

As if his body was preparing him for the inevitability of it, John wakes up slowly, gently, hesitantly.

For ten horrifying seconds, he has absolutely no idea where he is. Then, the pale morning light shifts a bit and he actually recognizes the faded damask pattern adorning the washed-out green walls. He blinks. He blinks again. Slowly, he turns his head to his left.

There lies a familiar head full of untamed, surprisingly somewhat dull looking dark curls. Their owner is currently sleeping the sleep of the dead; of those who are lost to utter oblivion. There is not even an ounce of blood left at those sharper than ever cheekbones and even in his sleep, there are permanent frown lines around Sherlock’s sunken eyes. His head lying level with John’s shoulder, his entire body is turned towards him and one of his hands is loosely grasping John’s hand.

Taken aback completely, John gently squeezes his fingers and he gets no response but a tiny shoulder twitch from Sherlock. He doesn’t wake up.

Feeling more bewildered with each passing second, John sees, observes and notes down the signs of exhaustion in his friend’s body. He tries to recollect what happened. His memories feel like they are behind cotton walls and he cannot even remember why he lies in here, in 221B, in Sherlock’s room, at Sherlock’s bed, _with_ Sherlock. For how long? His free hand flies towards his face and he finds out that he actually has a full grown beard. John cannot _ever_ remember willingly growing a beard since his final days at the university. He must have been hurt really badly. But why isn’t he in a hospital, then?

Looking around for signs of any medical equipment which could clue him in, he notices an IV stand near the open door. It’s not hooked to him, so that’s a good sign. Trying not to jolt a rare sleeping Sherlock, he gently pulls the covers and pushes them down. Underneath his shirt, his thumb goes over a large bandage covering in his right mid area. It looks like a serious post-surgery wrap; which is a real surprise. He must be on really good pain meds; he hardly notices any discomfort in the area. Were they in a case? Was he stabbed and then hit his head? His palm goes over his head too, but no, he can’t feel any bumps up there. He twitches a bit and then freezes.

There is no movement on the lower half of the bed.

His eyes locked on the soft covers, he tries again.

And again.

Suddenly, it’s as if all the air of the room has left him.

Gasping desperately, he tries and tries to kick of the rest of the covers, obscuring his legs.

“John?” A dark head rises next to him with a hoarse groan, but he hardly notices. He cannot move. He cannot feel his legs. Dizzy and lightheaded, he can hear blood rushing towards his ears and a buzzing of a bee; there are gunshots and bombs going off and screams, _take cover, Watson_ -

A strong pair of hands grasp his shoulders and shakes him. “John… John- _calm down_ , right in this second!” A wild looking Sherlock commands.

John opens his mouth, squeezing air into his chest, he tries to demand. “What- _what hap_ \- my legs, I _can’t_ \- _Sherlo_ -”

Those penetrating eyes lock on his while Sherlock moves his palms up to John’s face. “Stop _panicking_ and I will tell you. They are _there,_ John, stop being so ridiculous! _Look_ , see, observe!”

Sherlock rips the sheet covering him and John does _not_ see blood, does _not_ see amputated legs, he sees, _oh God_ , _oh sweet Jesus_ , he can actually _see_ them, his legs. His intact legs. He gulps and gulps and finally manages to draw a shaky breath into his screaming lungs. His fingers grasping Sherlock’s shirt, he tries to move his toes again and seeing no movement, almost bursts into tears. “I- I can’t-”

There is an unaccountable amount of time where everything whites out and when he can see again, it’s Sherlock who brings him back, who uses his hand on his neck to turn his head towards him. “John. I know it’s distressing. But, please. Please, I am begging you,” Sherlock blinks and blinks and does he?... He _does_ , he _is_ , he is crying, these are tears, these are tears filling his beautiful, _beautiful_ eyes and it’s John’s fault, it is because of him that he cries. “You need to calm down. Please, can you do this for me?”

John hears a moan of distress and realizes it comes out of his own throat. But Sherlock said _please_ and he almost never says _please_ and he is still crying and he looks so _frail_ and John, John cannot do this to him. He nods and nods again, squeezing his eyes shut and his trembling fingers into fists, he breathes in from his nose and breathes out of his mouth and does it over again and again. Slowly, he feels his body relaxing into Sherlock’s hold, he feels gentle, hesitantly shy caresses around his arms and his back and John’s only human, he just woke up and he may have lost the feeling of half of his body, damn it, he gives up struggling against his own body’s wishes. He leans towards Sherlock and instantly, he is welcomed, he is totally enveloped by Sherlock’s insisting arms. He finally takes a deep breath.

“Spinal stenosis,” Sherlock murmurs, “It’s doing well, you’re doing well- the swollen disk has gone down by sixty percent, your surgeon thinks there is a very high probability that it will fix himself in a very short time. No need for melodramatics, see?”

John laughs wetly into his shoulder. “ _Jesus_ ,” he breathes out and wipes his face. “Did I fall down the stairs? What happened?”

Sherlock blinks at him. “You don’t remember?” he quietly asks.

John shakes his head, slowly, but he does, as he says, “ _No_ ,” he does, he _does remember._ He remembers Mary and himself, dropping his loaded gun away from his treacherous non-wife, feeling defeated, he remembers blinking and looking at Sherlock, looking at his relief, then he remembers an excruciating pain at his side, he remembers being stabbed and being viciously pushed, pushed off the edge. He remembers stumbling back, away from Mary’s satisfied, cold blue eyes and he remembers hearing Sherlock’s scream of terror. There were tips of his hands brushing against John’s chest but they were too late, too late to catch him and John slipped away. He remembers falling, falling down irrevocably and memorizing. Memorizing, this, his last vision: Sherlock’s upper body hanging out of the edge of that stupid building and his rapidly diminishing, terrorised face, haloed by cloudy sky.

He doesn’t remember the landing.

He supposes that’s a good thing.

He draws a shaky breath and asks, quietly. “How? How did I not die?”

Sherlock’s fingers twitch on his arm. He can hear him swallowing, right next to his ear. “You’ve hit a balcony on the fifth floor. Luckily, the iron fence broke your fall and almost your spine.”

“Ouch,” John murmurs. He feels mostly numb now, but he has no idea how long he was under medically induced coma.

“I-” Sherlock swallows, again and again, “I- I have to apologize, I don’t feel- I can apologize enough- for, for that, John…”

“ _Oh_ ,” John says, suddenly understanding what Sherlock’s going on about, “Oh, that…”

“I tried,” Sherlock murmurs, his colour ashen, “I tried deleting it but I can’t seem to be able to… I can never forget the sound it made, when it- when you-”

“Oh, _Sherlock_ …” John whispers and awkwardly, tries to move his upper body towards him, “I’m fine now, see? I seem to be doing fine. I can’t feel any pain, so it’s a good sign, right?”

“You will be in need of _lots_ of physiotherapy,” Sherlock inserts, “You will be _miserable_ and _angry_ with yourself and you will snap often and then feel bad about it, but Mary is _gone_ now, John and you’ve just lost a potential of a family, a loving wife and a sweet love of a child but you mustn’t worry John, this wasn’t a real indication of what _could_ have been, as Mary was lying to you and to us since from the first day, it is not a sign of your own failure, but rather a complicated plot of a _truly_ , _absolutely_ psychopathic woman and I replaced your cane with something better and you don’t need to be so hard on yourself, see, you _almost_ died, so it’s imperative that you _must_ _not_ , you hear me, you _must not_ push me away John, do you think you can do that?” Sherlock breathes out.

John takes a long look at his blood-shot eyes. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

Sherlock blinks. “I just- did you _even_ hear me?”

“I heard you,” John interrupts, “Drank any water? Was this the first real sleep you’ve had?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. “You almost _died_ on me, John and that’s what you want to know? My eating and sleeping habits?”

“And drinking, yes,” John slowly caresses Sherlock’s thin wrist with his thumb, looking down to those precious veins, “I, uh- I would understand, if- if you… if you felt you’ve had to…”

“Didn’t even cross my mind,” Sherlock interrupts him with a hard look on his tired eyes.

John breathes out, “Good,” he murmurs, relieved, “ _Very_ good, Sherlock.” He lies back to his mountain of pillows, taking Sherlock’s arm and body with him.

After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock moves tiny bit closer to him, putting his head to John’s chest, carefully avoiding his wound. John sighs deeply, grasping Sherlock’s hand in his chest, his lips move against the dark curls as he speaks.

“I will be utterly, _utterly_ horrible,” he warns, “I am not good as a patient, I will do more than snap at you.”

“Good,” Sherlock retorts and then, he goes quiet. Very quiet, as he buries his mouth and his words into John’s chest. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” John whispers and kisses his hair, his forehead, wherever he can reach, until finally, Sherlock rises up and tenderly touches his bearded cheek, thumbs his eyelids and finally offers tiny, gentle caresses of kisses with his cracked lips. John replies to all of them, every single one of them and thinks, _thank God, finally_.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Tumblr](http://glenien.tumblr.com/)?


End file.
